


Fanfiction Drabbles

by thedogzoo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Song-fics, anything you recognize I don't own, daily writings, fandoms - Freeform, lots and lots of fanfiction, probably no originals, small and short stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:46:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6541705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedogzoo/pseuds/thedogzoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically what I write every so often that's not apart of any ongoing stories.. Just to keep the creative ideas flowing. Lots and lots of fanfiction, mostly Sherlock. I might stick in a little bit of SuperWhoLock too, but that's not for certain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ain't No Rest For The Wicked (Part 1) - Sherlock

Sherlock looked up as Irene Adler walked into the room, wearing her battle dress, which consisted of absolutely nothing. His expression splayed nothing of emotion, spare the slight calculation.

 

Irene smirked as her eyes met him, silver to blue. “Sherlock Holmes.” She walked over to a chair, standing tall and straight with confidence before sitting down and placing an arm across her lap and the other to tug at a loose strand of hair. “I’ve never thought I’d have the pleasure.”

 

“The Woman,” Sherlock replied, no greeting in his tone. It was flat. “It seems that you’ve built yourself quite a reputation.” He frowned just a bit when he thought of the manipulation he knew that she was under.

 

“Indeed, a reputation well represented,” Irene nodded. She leaned forward in her seat. “I’m talking business now. You seem all alone, but that John fellow of yours, and he’s distracted with everyone else. It seems you need a little company.”

 

Sherlock dodged her comment smoothly and changed the subject, passing his coat towards her. “You're cunning now, but before.. You were such a sweet young woman, why’d you do that to yourself?”

 

Irene pulled the coat around her body and tied it, using it as a substitute for clothes. “There isn’t any rest for the wicked, people like me. I have myself to feed and bills to pay. You, of all people, know that nothing in this world is for free, money wise or in other ways. Slowing down is not an option for my line of work, even though sometimes I wish there was.”

 

Sherlock frowned more by now, hearing John's footsteps as he was coming back with ice for Sherlock's requested injury.

 

Irene noticed and sighed quietly. She looked older than she was, the weight of the world on her shoulders.

 

“There isn't any rest for me until I close my eyes for good."

 

************

Mycroft stood in front of Sherlock, his umbrella in his hand.

 

“Irene Adler, the Woman, has been captured by terrorists and killed. Her body was just recently found. I hope that it doesn't affect you.”

 

Sherlock licked his dry lips and shook his head, taking a deep breath to clear his head. He thought back to their conversation before and what she had said. ‘There isn't any rest for me until I close my eyes for good.’

 

He guessed that she is finally resting now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ain't No Rest For The Wicked by Cage The Elephant. I highly recommend that you go listen to it if you haven't already.
> 
> I got the idea for using these specific "villains" off of a YouTube video, actually, when I was looking for this song with Sherlock gifs. :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FxUFCExWnhM
> 
> Anything that you recognize in the entirety of Daily Writings, I don't own. Obviously.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Ain't No Rest For The Wicked (Part 2) - Sherlock

Jeff Hope didn’t catch Sherlock Holmes off guard. No one has, and as far as Sherlock’s concerned, no one ever will. Besides, he willingly got into the cab with a murderous cabbie.

 

Jeff pulled up to a school building, empty with minimal lights that he turned on before picking the consulting detective up.

 

“What if I don’t come with you?" Sherlock challenged, sitting in the back seat and not moving stubbornly.

 

The cabbie shrugged before pulling out a black gun and holding it up to Sherlock’s head. “Then I’ll persuade you.” He made it clear he wasn’t looking for a fight.

 

Sherlock only sniffed and hummed, “Hm,” before getting out of the cab and following Jeff. He took them to a large classroom, taking a seat in the middle table with only two chairs, one on each side.

 

Jeff proceeded to taunt the detective before pulling out two identical bottles with identical pills inside of them. “I don't want your money, Mr. Holmes,” he said, his accent thick and silencing out the ‘H’ almost completely. “I already have a sponsor doing that. I just want a game.”

 

Sherlock stayed silent, watching him move and talk as he tried to deduce his life. Shaving cream behind his ear - it was clear no one lived with him. Relatively modern clothes, keeping up with the times but not giving up any money for the expensive clothing now a days.

 

“If you don't pick the good bottle from the bad bottle, I won't think twice,” Jeff said, placing the gun on the table and tapping it twice with his right index finger.

 

“You and I both know that it isn't a real gun," Sherlock sat up straighter and leaned forward a bit. “I’ll play your game; but first I must ask you a question. What made you want to live this kind of life?”

 

Jeff Hope looked at Sherlock, eyes old and expression worn, but nonetheless holding homicidal mischief. He leaned back in his seat which was close up to the table, relaxing against the board, but keeping his posture straight. “There's no rest for the wicked, Mr. Holmes. I've got two kids and a late ex-wife, and have nothing to pass down. That's why I'm doing this.”

 

“You murder them because you have a family?” Now he was just playing dumb.

 

Jeff scowled faintly, disgusted of Sherlock's intentional slowness. “No. I talk to them and they kill themselves. Every person I talk to earns more money from my sponsor to give to my children when I die. Money doesn't grow on trees - you of all people know that, Mr. Holmes, you're one of the brightest minds in the world.”

 

Sherlock's calculating eyes scanned him once more, his brows furrowed now elevating and a look of accomplishment came onto his face. “You’re a dead man walking,” he said in realization.

 

Jeff nodded, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He tapped his head. "Yup. Aneurysm. Any breath could be my last. That's why I can't hold back or slow down, cause time's a tickin'. I wish I could though, you know.”

 

“You're playing a game of 50/50 chance.”

 

“It's not chance," Jeff's voiced raised, "It's chess. It's a game that I have nothing to lose. Am I bluffing? Double, triple bluff?”

 

Sherlock didn't say anything.

 

Jeff Hope leaned in more, getting close. “There isn't any rest for the wicked, people like me, Mr. Holmes, until I close my eyes for good.”

 

********

 

Sherlock sat in the back of an ambulance, an orange shock blanket draped over his shoulders that he so desperately wanted off, but somehow found it back around his shoulders again. He eventually gave up when Lestrade came by for questioning.

 

“Did you see who shot him?" Lestrade asked simply, knowing Sherlock didn't like semantics.

 

“No," Sherlock replied. There was a long pause of silence before he spoke again. “He had a sponsor. He didn't rest with murdering for the money his sponsor gave to his children until now.”

 

Jeff Hope didn't rest until his eyes closed for good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Ain't No Rest For The Wicked by Cage The Elephant. Very good song, go check it out. :)
> 
> One more part of this to go!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Ain't No Rest For The Wicked (Part 3)

Sherlock Holmes sat down in the witness stand in court to be cross-examined. He urged himself on John’s behalf to not spout any clever remarks or anything unneeded. Just answer the questions straight and honest and nothing else to it. Well, of course he had to screw it up some how.

 

“Mr. Holmes, how would you describe this man?”

 

Sherlock began, “He is cunning and sneaky, very clever,” but then paused. He seemed to visibly relax as he began to speak again, cutting off his ‘disguise’ and responding how he really would. “He’s not a man at all. He's a spider. A spider in the center of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.”

 

********

 

“Jim Moriarty has been declared innocent and has been released from custody,” a reporter said into a microphone broadcasted on John and Sherlock's TV, along with many others. They were in front of the court house after the trial was done and over with.

 

Sherlock grumbled to himself, turning the TV off and standing up from being squashed up in his chair. He then proceeded to making tea, making sure to get two cups instead of just one. He was expecting someone.

 

There were footsteps soon coming up the stairs - way too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson and not a slight fault in the rhythm to be John. Sherlock carried the cups and teapot on a silver platter, setting it on the coffee table just when the door opened.

 

“You knew I was coming,” a high-pitched like voice cooed, an Irish lilt to it. “How sweet. You didn't have to you know.”

 

“Moriarty,” Sherlock replied, standing up and plastering an obviously fake smile on his face. After all, he didn't need to pretend with his match. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” He sounded more uncomfortable saying that than actually going up onto the witness stand.

 

Moriarty left the door trailing shut behind him before sitting down in Sherlock's chair when he'd clearly been directed to John's. He took one of the cups from the silver platter, watching Sherlock intently as he sat down and left the other cup untouched.

 

They skipped the semantics and small talk. “Calling yourself a consulting criminal now-a-days, hm?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow before letting it drop again.

 

“Ehh," Moriarty shrugged, making a face. “I'd call myself.. a preacher.”

 

“A preacher?”

 

Moriarty nodded. “A preacher of the truth, of course. The truth about you, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Truth about me?” Sherlock questioned, his confusion evident.

 

“Well,” Jim glanced up in his mistake, “Me too. That we're the same.”

 

The youngest Holmes has never felt so appalled, he doesn't think, in a long time until now. “We are ever so different," he corrected, scowling faintly.

 

Moriarty's shoulders shook in his chuckling, swallowing some tea and setting the cup on the coffee table. “That's where you've never been so wrong." He leaned forward. "You see, we're both seeking out to satisfy our thrills.”

 

Sherlock's relaxed posture was gone, finding Moriarty's words and advance closer threatening.

 

“Oh, come on!” Moriarty groaned. He swore that Sherlock was a moron sometimes. “You threaten your own life, you've even threatened John's, just to get that high feeling of excitement. It's _fun_ for you. Now, me? It's the fact that the game has a player equal to me. It's like living in a world of goldfish sometimes, you know?”

 

Sherlock thought of responding, going back at it a different way. "Why are you doing this?”

 

A large grin spread across Jim's face, his eyes piercing into Sherlock's soul and rattling it up, his teeth almost looking sharp. “There isn't any rest for the wicked, Sherlock. Until we close our eyes for good. Nothing in this world's for free and I'm getting through it with a shortcut - you can't slow me down or hold me back. No rest for me until I close my eyes for the very last time.”

 

He leaned forward. "And you know what? It's _fun_.”

 

********

 

“You're ordinary," Moriarty looked at Sherlock, real close to him, in disappointment. "You're on the side of the angels.”

 

“I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them," Sherlock warned. “You want me to shake hands with you in Hell, I shall not disappoint you.”

 

They extended their hands in the short distance between them and shook them, causing confusion to raise up onto Sherlock's face. Moriarty was left handed, but he was shaking with his right.

 

Moriarty's face lit up with a grin before opening his mouth up wide in a split second, bringing his left hand up with the gun, shoved it into his mouth, and fired. Sherlock gasped, jumping a foot backwards and seeing Moriarty's body underneath a pool of blood and cold dead black eyes staring up at him.

 

'Now it's your turn,' they almost said.

 

So Sherlock stepped onto the roof edge of St. Bart's hospital and called John his last goodbye. This was all to keep them safe. After a few exchanged words of John begging him to get down, Sherlock tossed the cellphone aside and spread his arms out.

 

He jumped.

 

He guessed that Moriarty now rested, his eyes closed for good.

 

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes for good, and finally rested.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap folks for Ain't No Rest For The Wicked! I had lots of fun writing this part especially. A certain thrilling challenge about it. :)
> 
> Ain't No Rest For The Wicked by Cage The Elephant - again, if you haven't listen to it, go check it out! It's awesome and pretty catchy.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Lungs With Smoke (Part 1)

___“Your face hides nightmares so nicely,_

_When your green eyes turn to grey I know you’re fighting_

_Back the demons you swear you’ll never let win.”_

 

_\- Lungs With Smoke by Nicole Warner_

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was something wrong with Sherlock.

 

John knew that there was something up ever since Sherlock came back from the dead. Granted, it was probably his anger and total conceitedness that covered it up for long time, but after a while, he noticed.

 

Sherlock wasn’t his Sherlock anymore. Not truly. He wasn’t as spontaneous as he once was and there wasn't any life in those blue-green-silver eyes of his. John could still never figure out what color they were, no matter how hard he tried. He wasn’t as excited about triple-murders or experiments on how long the tongue, being the strongest muscle in the body, melts in acid.

 

There was something very much wrong, indeed.

 

 

\--------

 

John was asleep in his room that night, curled up in his blankets in a dreamless slumber when he heard the start of it. Being a very light sleeper due to his time in the military, it didn't take much to wake him up. He shot up, ready for action, but was only met by darkness and blaring red numbers saying ‘1:00 A.M.’ on his alarm clock on the nightstand. Why had he woken up?

 

There was sounds of blankets moving and someone tossing and turning, slight squeaks in the bed frame coming from the bedroom below him. Sherlock had gone to bed willingly, which caught John off guard so much that he considered the possibility of his flat mate being sick.

 

John frowned when he heard Sherlock’s sleepy voice murmur unintelligible things. He quietly pushed the covers off of his legs and stood up, making sure that he didn't leave the floor creaking in his footsteps. He went down the stairs as quietly as he could, glancing around at what he could see out to make sure of no unwanted guests. It had become a habit after a while.

 

John saw that Sherlock's door was open a crack. He peeked his head inside the bedroom cautiously, eyes landing on a crumpled mass in the middle of the bed.

 

 Sherlock had nothing but a pair of pajama pants on, curled up in his side and trembling on top of messed up and half-way-fallen-off-the-bed covers. His back faced John, arms tucked against his chest.

 

“No,” Sherlock murmured in his sleep, flinching. “No, no.. Don't know.. Leave me alone.." His breath quickened and became uneven, tears starting to well up in his eyes that were clenched shut, almost in pain. “Please!” he whimpered, curling up into a tighter ball. “Hurts.. Stop!”

 

John knew it was time to step in the moment he heard Sherlock start to scream. He quickly rushed to his side and shook him. “Sherlock,” he whispered, shaking him more as Sherlock thrashed. “Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock, finally coming to reality, gasped and shot up, hot tears streaming down his face and choking back sobs. He flinched away from the army-doctor's touch, in which John put his hands on his lap.

 

“Hey, hey, Sherlock," John whispered gently, desperate to anchor Sherlock down to reality. "It was just a nightmare.. You're back in Baker Street with me, you're safe.”

 

Sherlock hiccupped, running a hand over his face to get rid of his tears that wouldn't stop flowing. He covered his mouth to keep back his sobbing, emotions that he swore he'd never show or have in the first place tumbling out for all to see.

 

John placed his hand lightly on his knee, wanting to help in someway. The response he got was shocking for Sherlock's character - he ended up with Sherlock burying his face in the crook of his neck, hands clenching around the t-shirt he had worn to bed.

 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's thin body, keeping him in warmth and comfort. “It's okay, Sherlock, I promise," he whispered. “You're safe with me.”

 

“Please don't go," Sherlock pleaded into his shoulder, tears dampening the fabric.

 

"I won't," John promised. “I'm staying.” And that's where they stayed. It seemed like hours before Sherlock calmed down, but he kept his place in John's embrace, almost like a child's need for comfort.

 

"I'm scared,” the detective admitted, his voice hoarse and raggedy, but not above a whisper.

 

“I know," John murmured. “You don't have to be scared, though. I'll protect you."

 

Maybe where the scars John noticed on Sherlock's back came from was the source of this. He didn't know. All that he did know was that his best friend needed someone to be there for him. No one has been there really for Sherlock until now.

 

John Watson swore to stay by Sherlock Holmes's side until the end of time.

 

And he did.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, this is NOT my song if you weren't paying attention to the lyric label. This is actually a fan-made song that I found on YouTube and I really really liked it. It actually was basically the whole base of this little ficlet here that I'm probably gonna toy with some more. Go listen to it! It's a very gorgeous song.
> 
> **** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8_wLnOENTE ****
> 
> I know it's pretty short and probably very OOC for Sherlock's character, but I don't really care. I would very much (in fact, I probably wouldn't even publish it, I don't think) care if it was in a real story, but this isn't a real story of mine really, just the usual warm up drabbles every so often. So, yeah.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Lungs With Smoke (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not always going to do story-mode for these types of things. I might just do little evaluations and stuff like that. I'm just keeping the 'Part 2' and 'Part 3', etc., stuff just to group it all into the same song basis thing. Just my logic here, hehe, sorry.
> 
> Just a little tiny thing of mine to keep the ideas and writing skills up and flowing. Not very long at all, but I found it fit for someone up at 10:30 PM whose ran a mile and done a lot of other stressful and tiring things that day.. Anyways! Enjoy!

_"I'm not a hero, don't tell me these things."_

_\- Lungs With Smoke, Nicole Warner_

 

* * *

 

 

______________

Sherlock Holmes once said, “Don’t make people into heroes, John, they don’t exist. If they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

 

When talking about reality, there’s no such thing as flying super heroes that help fight crime or fight off aliens, like in the Marvel or DC comics. They’re just works of fiction, made by hopeful people.

 

When talking about the world and the concept, however, it’s different.

 

A hero in the world around us can be defined by many things. It may be someone saving a kitten’s life, or risking theirs to save people from a burning building. It may be someone just being themselves and saving another from their demons. “Thank god, you’re my hero,” might be said when important information was passed on to another unsuspecting person who needed it.

 

The definition in the dictionary is “A person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.”

 

John Watson can easily be named a hero, being a former soldier and army doctor, and is still continuing his doctoring to this day. He's saved many lives, but he’s taken some too for the sake of his country. He risked his own life to save others. That is very easily called being a hero.

 

But does it apply to Sherlock when he saved John from himself?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not my song if you haven't bothered to look at the lyric label! Written and sang by this lovely girl called Nicole Warner. Link to the YouTube video right here.
> 
> **** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8_wLnOENTE ****
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Moriarty's Hell - Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*
> 
> This has a supernatural theme to it, as well as descriptive gore. There are also set up means of torture.. So read at your own risk.
> 
> Do not read if you are sensitive to these kinds of things.
> 
> I know that lots of you have had events in life that have led many to a dark time in your life. Just know that I care, and many others care too. We are ALWAYS here to talk to, and I mean ALWAYS. You are very much loved and fondly thought of. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Sherlock gasped sharply, eyes shooting wide open. He tried sitting up, but he found that he was in fact standing and that his arms were outstretched. He blinked rapidly, clearing up his vision, before looking at the restraints.

 There were metal chains wrapped around his wrists tightly, chafing and rubbing when he tried to tug them down. His arms were stretched out as far as they could, his ankles chained to the ground.

 “Shh, shh, shh,” a voice with an Irish lilt cooed softly. It was familiar and sent chills down the detective’s spine. No. No. He should’ve been dead.

 Sherlock trailed his gaze up to Moriarty to face him directly. What he saw made him freeze, eyes going wide and the urge to run strong.

 His eyes were black. There were nothing in them. No emotion or color. The blackness spread all across the whites of his eyes. His mouth was torn and jagged up his cheek, showing blood stained teeth all the way back to his molars. Blood crusted around the gashes. His fingernails were claws, sharp as talons and teeth as sharp as razors. Both were in points. The suit that Moriarty usually wore was almost as flawless as when he killed himself.

 Sherlock blinked and the man in front of him was human again.

 Moriarty smirked, dragging a slender index finger across Sherlock's cheek gently, as if he were taunting him. “Don’t worry, Sherlock,” he said softly, eyes scanning his face. “I’ll take good care of you.”

 Sherlock's breathing was fast, terror showing as clear as day on his face. He didn't understand why he let his emotions shows so much. He never, in a day of his life, let any of his emotions shows. They were a weakness. And he didn't know why he was so compelled, so uncontrolled as if they had a life of their own and were controlling them, to show his soul to the spider. Because that's all he was - a soul of fear and loneliness, sadness and guilt.

 “Where am I?” Sherlock asked, eyes darting everywhere. He saw nothing but everything. He saw darkness and blackness but blood and gore.

 Moriarty laughed, a glint of craziness appearing in his eyes. He took a step back and spread out his arms, gesturing to all around him. “Don't you recognize it?” He paused, waiting for an answer. He looked almost disappointed when he was met by silence. "It's Hell.”

 “What?" Sherlock was struck with surprise and fear all at the same time. Hell was real? Why  was he in it?

 Moriarty looked pointedly at him. “You did agree to shake hands with me, remember Sherlock?” He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing slowly around him in circles. “At the Fall? You were so scared-” he made a gesture on the word scared, mocking him of his ‘sentiment’ - “about sweet poor old John. I'd say you were getting soft.”

 Sherlock swallowed, watching Moriarty with his silver eyes. Usually cold and analytical, he already all had all the information he needed. Jim was insane.

 Jim stood in front of the youngest Holmes, just a foot away. His face turned almost demonic, lip curling back in a snarl to show sharp and pointed teeth. Everything was dim, not giving colors their full effect. An animalistic growl came from his throat, reminding Sherlock of a dog. But meaner than he's ever seen.

 “You cheated.”


	7. Moriarty's Hell - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*
> 
> Descriptive gore and descriptive suicide is in this chapter. Emotional torture as well. Read at your own risk.
> 
> Please do not read if you are sensitive to these types of things.
> 
> I know that many of you have been, and many are in, a dark time in their life. Just know that you are never alone and that you never have been, never will be. I am here to talk to ALWAYS, and I mean ALWAYS. You are very much loved and fondly thought of. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

“You cheated.”

Sherlock tried leaning back, trying to run away, but the chains held him in place. “I didn’t cheat. I won.”

Moriarty began to look angrier. “You were /alive/!” he shrieked, his voice echoing loudly in the seemingly locked room. It hurt Sherlock’s ears at how loud it was. “The game was supposed to end with your death.” He pause, smirking. “All cheaters must be punished.”

Memories of Siberia flashed through the detective’s mind. He remembered the lead pipe being smashed into his skin multiple times and whips against his back. He remembered being kicked and punched, cut and bruised. He remembered being burned. He remembered the unimaginable.

There must of been a look of remembrance and horror, because Moriarty assured, “Oh, yes Sherlock. It’ll definitely be like Siberia..” He shrugged. “But worse.”

Moriarty's human look flickered and glitched into the demon appearance before zapping back to the human form. “Lets get started, shall we?”

 

\-----------

Sherlock held back his tears, choking on sobs that were being silenced. “John," he whimpered. He saw John's body lying carelessly strewn on the ground, a bullet through his heart. His skin was pale and eyes dead and wide.

The body flickered away, leaving nothing behind. Suddenly, there was another John. He was bare chested, but the Y-stitching that went all the way up his cheek seemed like covering. Blood crusted around the thread, skin deadly pale, and a gaping hole in his left shoulder. The corner of his lips was gashed and healed wrong, holding the skin up in a disproportional way.

“Sherlock?” John's eyebrows furrowed, accent crystal clear and as beautiful as Sherlock remembered. "Where were you?”

“It's not real, it's not real," Sherlock whispered desperately, eyes wide and watching the man. This was all a trick, this was all a magic trick. This was a game.

John's expression became angry, lips curling back to snarl and he stepped forward. “I trusted you!” he shouted. “Why didn't you save me?” His voice became pleading. "I was just lying there in 221B, waiting for you to save the day like you always did. What a bloody tool, I was.” He shook his head. “You only leave a mess where you go. You don't care about anyone but yourself.”

Sherlock had the urge to reply. He denied it, “No, no, this isn't real.. I’d never leave you, John, I swear.”

The man in front of him threw his head back, laughing sarcastically, which exposed the long gash of a knife right where his vocal cords were. He'd be bleeding out if this was reality. John shook his head again, looking, staring at the chained detective. “Like you didn't leave me when you jumped?”

Tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes. He refused to respond.

“You left me all alone, Sherlock," John spat. “I was just as good as dead. You know what?" He rose an eyebrow, hands clasping behind his back as he began to slowly circle around Sherlock like a shark eyeing its prey. His mannerisms were too much like Jim. "I actually tried to be dead." He rose an eyebrow, cocking his head. "Did you know that? You were my whole world and you just-" He held up his hand and tilted it, sliding it down diagonally as he whistled to make an appearance of it falling. "Jumped."

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John.

John shrugged, changing directions. He rolled his shoulder like it ached, making the wound look like it was oozing again. "I could barely keep myself alive with the basics, let alone emotionally. You see, I was falling deeper and deeper into a hole before I met you. You were so supernaturally different, like you were an angel." He chuckled to himself. "I actually fancied you the whole time. Admired you like a school boy." He bit his lips, a deep breath coming out a sigh as if he were disappointed with himself. "But then when you were gone, I just fell quicker and quicker.. By the second month, I was already dead inside and just like a walking corpse."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat and plunged down into his stomach, making it hard to breath. He really caused that?

"Do you remember the Browning I had?" John asked. "You know, the one I shot the cabbie with? I still had it in my bedside drawer. Every day, I'd take it out and turn it in my hands.." He pulled his hands from behind his back and gestured like he was actually looking at the gun. He looked back up at Sherlock to watch his reaction. "I'd hold it up to my throat, click the safety off, and wonder if it was my time to die. I'd always put it back down and click the safety back on, then bury it back in my drawer."

Sherlock swallowed hard, eyes glistening and wet with tears. He couldn't have caused him that much pain.

"But then- you came back," John said, starting to grin. "I was so pissed with you, but Sherlock, you were my life line. Then one day, you were in the bedroom."

Sherlock didn't have any recollection of John's supposed death. But he guessed that he was supposed to be told of every single bad thing that happens to John, that could've happened.

"You were ignoring me as usual and sulking with your experiments that I insisted you keep in your room and not out on the kitchen table." John began telling the story. "I was in the living room, sitting in my chair reading the newspaper. I was caught off guard by someone holding a cloth up to my nose. He was trying to suffocate me, saying that if I struggled he'd slit my throat. Naturally, I fought. I screamed your name, Sherlock." John tilted his head to the side. "I thrashed and tried to get your attention. But you just ignored me as usual. He took out a gun and shot me in my bad shoulder."

Sherlock felt like sinking to the ground and dying.

John chuckled. "Fuck, did it hurt like hell. But you were preoccupied. I knew you heard the shot, I knew you were reluctant to come out and find me. By that time, he already slit my throat and left me there. I never did figure out who he was." He clicked his tongue quietly. "You didn't come out and find me until I was already dead. I was begging your name before he tore my vocal cords. But you didn't care, did you?"

"I.. I did care," Sherlock choked out.

John suddenly lunged, gripping Sherlock by the throat and squeezing until his windpipe was almost cut off. "Don't you lie to me, I know your tricks," he cooed sickly sweet. "You lied to me all the time." He released him, leaving a coughing Holmes behind him. He turned back around.

Sherlock gasped for air, coughing deeply and harshly as he tried to suck some oxygen back into his lungs. His blurry vision saw John as a limping rag doll, destroyed. Maybe that's what he really was on the inside.

"I loved you and you left me," John whispered softly, face cast down to the ground. When he looked up at the Holmes, he started to grin. It ripped open his stitches with a sickening sound, blood starting to drip, drip down his skin. He seemed to fall apart like the doll he looked like.

"Now you get to know what it feels like."


	8. Almost If

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my mother, who's been alive for 43 years and has been there through thick and thin for both her sisters and her children. She is truly a work of art who deserves everything good in the world. She has a true heart of gold that's been through a whole lot more than needed to be, but she's here and kicking. She is truly loved and appreciated and is never alone.
> 
> We love you, Mom. <3
> 
> Also, this is getting back at you for the bumper sticker the other day.. Mwahahaha.

Sherlock knows lots of the human language, from the shortest to longer words, from the easiest to most complicated. He's used the most endearing terms for his disguises and the most nasty and distasteful towards his brother and the idiots in life. To generalize, pretty much everyone he meets. He has no rating on them; good words or bad, no preference besides the insult 'idiot.' They're just letters in certain patterns to form words that make up lots of the idiocy in the world. They were just.. words. Nothing to them.

Well, that was until he met John Watson. He discovered that the words 'almost' and 'if' were the most horrifying and awful words in all of human history.

In the case of 'A Study In Pink,' John liked to call it, there were 4 suicide murders that Sherlock and John took down together. But they hardly knew each other; they just met, yet they were already taking down criminals together. John hadn't even moved into the flat yet.

When Sherlock looks back to the time in the lab, he wonders, 'What if Stamford had his phone on him?' He assumed that nothing much else would happen, that everything else would lead to the exact same conclusion: they catch the killer and move on in their life as flatmates.

But then he thinks a little bit further ahead in their adventure. If he had used Stamford's phone, would John ever be interested enough to show up at 221B to take a look? What if he didn't go to the crime scene with him?

If John hadn't come into the lab at all, would they have met?

Sherlock sits there thinking in his chair, alone in silence. He hasn't moved a muscle in a good few hours with no one to bother him or make any noise. It was almost peaceful, but there was that empty space next to him. That empty chair unused across from him. He leans against the back of his chair, exhaling in a sigh as he taps his index fingers that are pressed together against his cupid's bow together in thought.

John may not know this, but Sherlock notices everything. He notices the little breathy laughs that John quietly keeps hidden under his breath. He notices the quick glances of admiration when Sherlock fires off deductions at record speed. He notices the small touches against his shoulder, against his hands and arms. He notices John licking his lips when he's stressed and he notices when his shoulder's acting up in the cold weather. Sherlock notices the fluttering gaze towards his lips and back to his eyes and every little smile that spreads across the tired army doctor's face.

Sometimes, Sherlock doesn't even notice that he notices these little actions until later when he's filing through his mind palace, deleting things he didn't need and storing information. He keeps the little touches and raising of eyebrows, comments of 'fantastic' and 'extraordinary' in a floor that he built just for John Watson. He knows that John Watson doesn't deserve a floor - no, no, he does not. He deserves a whole mind palace of his own. A separate one to store absolutely everything about him. Every single little detail, every bit of information and quirk and likings and dislikings.

Sherlock remembers the dinner at Angelo's when they were working on The Study In Pink. He scans through the event again, noticing John's curiosity.

"So, do you have a girlfriend?" John asked a bit hesitantly.

"Girlfriends aren't my area," Sherlock replied, dismissing the idea as he looked out the window anxiously.

"..Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine by the way-"

"I know it's fine," Sherlock said, cutting off John's awkward reassurance.

John rose his eyebrows for a quick second. "So, do you..?"

"No. I consider myself married to my work."

John nodded, licking his lips, and glanced back down at the fork in his hand. "Good, good. You're unattached. Like me."

Sherlock's lips quirk to the side at the memory. It was quite amusing to him. The fact that John asked about him being in a relationship was amusing, but also that he had said he was married to his work was an extreme now. The smile quickly vanishes.

The word almost is a very terrifying word when you think about it. It means something that was about to happen, but was cut short. It means that something was on the path to either destruction or building up, but was stopped right where just a little bit more would finish.

When Moriarty met Sherlock at the pool, John was strapped to bombs with someone holding a rifle that had an itchy trigger finger. Sherlock remembers seeing the steady and well thought stance of John, even though it was obvious that anyone else would be terrified and shaking in their boots. But no. John braved it out just somehow. But..

He almost died.

That was when Sherlock realized that the word 'almost' could make or break a life.

Sherlock fast forwards a bit in his memory reel and remembers little moments where he'd tried to subtly hint anything of a want to be with John. In between cases were where the majority of them was, but a few were shoved into crime scenes and running through London.

He almost reached for John's hand when he was almost in tears because of Harry.

He almost asked John if he wanted to go out for dinner to Angelo's, seeing that they hadn't been there in ages.

He almost kissed John in the hallway when they were grabbing their coats off the hangers to go run around London.

Sherlock's lips curl into a small frown, slouching in his seat as his memory reels off the road of adventures coming to an end. He remembers standing on top of the building of Saint Bart's with his cell phone to his ear. He remembers begging John to not let his eyes off of him. He almost hears John's begging to not do it.

He almost said he loved him.

When Sherlock came back to London from Siberia, he found John with a woman named Mary. What if he came back sooner? Would John still throw him to the ground and tear up the healing slash wounds on his back? Would he still have proposed to Mary?

He remembers hearing the words at the wedding being spoken, "Speak now or forever hold your peace."

What if he had objected? What if he stepped up from his spot on the side and confessed his love for that army doctor that he fell in love with?

Sherlock doesn't notice that he's shaking and tears are about to well up, heart plunged into the pit of his stomach and sending pulses of guilt through his veins. He sucks in a harsh deep breath, feeling his eyes becoming wet. He brings his knees up to his chest, arms wrapping around his legs as he shifts his gaze to the empty chair with a longing stare. His body begins to shudder and sobs choking him, overwhelming waves of sadness washing over him.

He remembers everything. John moved out in the end.

All because of his if's that crippled him into silence. All because of his almost's that he never took further action on.

It was almost if John was ignoring him. That he was so mad that he refused to acknowledge the detective's presence or cast a glance in his direction. 

It was almost if that Sherlock Holmes never existed to the man he loved so much.


	10. Happy Birthday! *SUPERWHOLOCK + OTHER FANDOMS*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just to clarify really quick, Almost If was kind of a pay back for my Mom. It's an inside joke between us, so shh, don't mention it. ;)
> 
> This is the REAL birthday present for my Mom, but the other one was kind of a teasing type of thing.. I hope that's understandable and makes sense. Anyways, an official happy birthday to my wonderful Mom on being 43 years old today! The best Mom anyone could ever have. <3
> 
> This is a multiple fandoms crossover that my Mom enjoys, and mostly I enjoy them too. They are:  
> Sherlock x Supernatural x Doctor Who x Thor x Rizzolli and Isles x Lucifer
> 
> Enjoy!

In a place far off in London, many people sat in the living room of the TARDIS. The TARDIS was parked in 221B, the flat of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Everyone was crowded around a video camera on a small tripod that stood in the middle of the room.

Thor Odinson was explaining to Castiel, an angel of the Lord, what they were planning to do. It was their dear friend, Jenni's birthday and they were bummed that they couldn't see her. So, this was their present to her.

Everyone got into a line, knowing exactly who went up when. Firstly, Sam and Dean Winchester with Castiel in tow sat down on the couch that was in front of the video camera. Dean leaned forward onto his knees as usual, where Castiel was sitting up unnaturally straight and Sam was leaning a bit forward as well.

"Happy birthday, Jenni!" Team Free Will chimed. Dean began to speak for them all. "Winchesters and Castiel here. We're very sorry that we couldn't make it. We're across the pond right now in London. You've always said how much you liked accents, so I guess that's an upside for you, kind of."

Dean stared the camera right in the lens, a small smile forming on his face. "Sam, Cas, and I are very proud of you. You've raised amazing children and do a wonderful job at everything you do. We know that the last year or so, especially, has been hard on you and that we are very proud of you of getting through that too. Life's a bitch, sometimes, but you just gotta fight through it. Always keep fighting."

Sam nodded in agreement. "Always keep fighting, yeah. It doesn't matter how - whether it be reading your fantasy books that you love or going places every day. Whatever gets you through it."

Castiel relaxed visibly and he spoke up. "The Lord surely favors you, Jenni. He is proud of your work and encourages you on. You will surely have a place with the angels - even though if most of them aren't as angelic as imagined, they are exceptionally surprised by your determination." He gave a small smile.

"We'll see you soon," Dean concluded. He raised his hand in a simple wave. "See ya!" Team Free Will then stood up and stepped aside for Sherlock and John to walk into view and sit down.

John started talking first, giving Sherlock a chance to think of what he was gonna say that wouldn't come out offensive. "Happy birthday, Jenni, from Sherlock and John!" he grinned. "We, too, are apologizing that we weren't able to make it. Every criminal in London seems to be popping up and out of nowhere all of a sudden and we're got our hands tied." He gave an apologetic look.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and began to speak. "It's a great thing for me, of course, but for you, we know it's a bit unfortunate. It's even more unfortunate of how the last few years have gone for you." He paused, looking directly in the camera. His cold silvery eyes trained on the device easily, but held more emotion than just the analytical look they had to them.

"You are a very intelligent woman who, from the day we met, has been interested in everything I've brought up and explained. You're very curious and that honestly surprised me from the start. No one's ever paid so much attention before and noticed the details that idiots don't. I honestly enjoy your company very much and wish you the best that life has to offer. Mycroft's always told me that caring is never an advantage, but I've changed my mind on that. John, for one, but you as well. I hope that things look better for you and your children soon.. You don't deserve any of this."

John stared at Sherlock like he grew another head, shock splayed across his face. He's never heard that much..  _sentiment_ be spoken from him before. He quickly turned away when Sherlock cast a curious glance his way and faced the camera.

"He said it better than I ever could," John said, giving a sheepish chuckle. "Once again, happy birthday." He gave a small wave and the two stood up and left the view, where Thor Odinson shortly took their place. He awkwardly sat Mjolnir on his lap as his knees almost reached his chest sitting down.

"Happy birthday, Lady Jenni, from Asgard!" Thor boomed, causing everyone to screw their faces into an uncomfortable expression out of the camera's sight, flinching back from the volume. "Best regards from the Warriors Three and I, as well. Allfather and Mother are very impressed with your life here on Midguard and would happily crown you a goddess." He tapped the hammer on his lap. "You are worthy, as well as Captain America, of holding Mjolnir. For that, Asgard bows in your presence." He gave a grin before being booted off screen and replaced with Lucifer Morningstar and Mazikeen.

Mazikeen sat, splayed out and taking up most of the couch, where Lucifer sat up straight like the posh person he led to be. "Happy birthday, love," Lucifer said, flashing one of his signature smiles that had everyone telling their utmost desires to. "So sad that we couldn't see you today. It's been a while, hasn't it, Maze?" He looked towards the demon next to him.

Mazikeen leaned forward to be parallel with Lucifer. "It's been quite a while, yes," she agreed. "Everyone blames the Devil for problems in their life, but Lucifer, you, and I blame Amenadiel. So, Amenadiel's been giving you a hard time lately, we've noticed, and Lucifer will gladly kick his ass while you and I get wasted. What about that?"

Lucifer looked like he was considering the proposal and shrugged to himself, showing that he didn't mind the idea. He quite liked it, actually. "Definitely. We'll see you soon - stop by at Lux when you get the chance." He ended it with a wink and the two of them left, leaving the only three remaining being Jane Rizzolli and Maura Isles with the Doctor following.

Rizzolli sat next to Isles, the two of them being their professional selves in their dress and high heels (Isles) and slacks (Rizzolli). "Hey there, Jenni," Rizzolli greeted, starting them out.

"Happy birthday!" Isles chirped. "Good job on not ending up in my morgue!" She paused, suddenly realizing that it sounded wrong. "I guess.. I didn't mean it that way, it was supposed to be an encouragement-"

"I think," Jane interrupted with a chuckle and amused smile, "she gets it. How's the kids? They seem to be growing up so fast." Isles looked like she was about the explain the reasoning behind it. Jane hurried and spoke louder to drown out Maura's starting. "We're glad that you've been slowly getting through any obstacles in your life. Baby steps, remember?"

Maura nodded in agreement. "You are definitely the most strongest woman I've ever met. I couldn't have ever asked for a better friend in the world. Keep on fighting, girlie, you're almost there."

Jane nodded in agreement. "Happy birthday, Jenni. We've definitely have been blessed on meeting you." The two of them gave the camera a smile before moving out of the way for the Doctor to sit down and conclude the video.

"Jenni!" the Doctor began in his 11th regeneration. "I haven't seen you in a long time on your terms, but I can already tell that you've been getting even more amazing than before! And your children - oh, they're brilliant. You're brilliant; the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, does it?" He gave a grin and a playful wink. "Humans are so fascinating in everything they do, you know, yet lots of what they do are horrible." He paused, frowning. "You're just unlucky enough to see a part of dark human nature. The storm doesn't last forever, always remember that. Time goes on, as we Timelords know by heart, and it slowly starts to heal wounds. Very slowly, but soon, you'll feel like you did before again. I promise." He knew from experience, a flicker in his eyes of guilt and sadness, before plastering another cheerful look onto his face. "And now-"

Someone brought the camera back several feet and adjusted the angle so it had everyone in the shot. The person, being Maura, ran back to her place with the Doctor joining her. They took a deep breath and began the traditional song.

"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Jenni! Happy birthday to you!"

\----------

Sam smiled, looking at the picture of them all congregated together in rows with their arms draped over each other. Everyone's signatures was scrawled on the back, filled with black sharpie, but each name still distinct. He finished what he was writing on the front and slipped the photo into an envelope with a CD, video burned onto it. He sealed it and wrote 'Jenni' on the back of it before mailing it.

A few days after June 7th, the letter from them all came in Jenni's mail. She rose an eyebrow at where it was from - London, of all places! - but still opened it. Upon sight, she started to tear up, covering her mouth with her hand.

"What's wrong, Momma?" her son asked, coming over and looking up at his mother with confusion and worry.

"Yeah, Mom, what's up?" her daughter asked after and frowned slightly, walking over and wrapping her arms around Jenni's waist and looking over her shoulder, since a table was blocking the option to hug from the front.

Jenni sniffed, dismissing it and shook her head. "Nothing," she replied, giving a small laugh and a grateful smile. "Just a few memories, that's all."

That night, she put CD into the envelope after watching it. She wiped her eyes, clearing the tears away from her vision. She felt so appreciated and grateful and so much more. She couldn't have asked for anything else. She loved it so much, vowing to look at it every day.

So there from then on out sat the envelope on her dresser, the photo on top of it.

' _Happy 43rd Birthday from your 2nd family~ Love you! <3_'


End file.
